


almost twilight

by donkatsu



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Multi, heaven and hell au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:33:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27537640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donkatsu/pseuds/donkatsu
Summary: Steve’s exhausted.Not only is the store completely destroyed, but there’s also a half-naked man standing in front of him with a tail poking out behind his dress pants. It disappears, disintegrating.“Hi,” it says quietly, with a smile. “How ya doing today?”“Tony!”Hi there. I’m God. And I’m here to tell you my story of the couple that broke the universe.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	almost twilight

Steve’s exhausted. 

Not only is the store completely destroyed, but there’s also a half-naked man standing in front of him with a tail poking out behind his dress pants. It disappears, disintegrating.

“Hi,” it says quietly, with a smile. “How ya doing today?”

_ “Tony!” _

Hi there. I’m God. And I’m here to tell you my story of the couple that broke the universe.

* * *

Steve startles awake, his breath coming to him in harsh bursts. He wonders if this is how it feels to come back to life, a dimly entertained thought in the back of his brain. He pushes himself to sit up, coughing a little.  _ It’s dark,  _ he comments. That’s when he realizes that he’s not in his room. He’s not sitting on his bed. He’s… he’s not anywhere. His pulse spikes. 

He looks around frantically, trying to scramble up- his feet don’t hit solid ground, it kicks off something in the air- ground- whatever this place is made out of. There’s nothing. It’s just darkness, pure black… he doesn’t know. But it’s empty. It’s disorienting. 

In the distance, he hears something like bare feet on wood. 

“I see you’ve awoken.”

He can’t make out the shape that’s coming closer to him, but he’s  _ very  _ frightened. It’s a mass of writhing apparitions, hands and faces of torment occasionally shoving their way to the forefront. A scratched mask sits atop the whole thing, looking down at him. He opens his mouth to probably scream, but no sound comes out. The mark smiles at him, opening its mouth to speak in fragmented sentences.

“No sound in the hall of Empty... mortal. Not from... souls like you, I mean. Allow... to give you what you... call ‘clothes’.”

A snap, and he’s dressed again. He didn’t even know he was naked in the first place. When he looks down at himself, he’s wearing robes with weird symbols stitched into the lapels at the front. He grimaces. 

“Not... you wearing clothes… like it matters. You’re dead anyway... clothed or not.”

Then, the panic hits. Death. He’s dead. He’s dead? He’s dead! Well, when he says that that answers some questions, that’s a lie. It answers absolutely nothing. What- and excuse the French for a minute- the  _ fuck  _ is happening? This is some weird fever dream, isn’t it?

“Your heart… won’t stop beating. That’s odd. You’re not supposed... to have a heart.” The creature comes closer, forcing Steve to try to backpedal on air. “You’re not supposed… to be here. You’re not supposed… to have a heart. Why do you still have a heart? So strange… truly strange, yes… I brought you… to eat… but...”

Steve feels a little bit of hope. Is this nightmare fueled on crack finally going to end? 

“Well… It’s been so long since… we last had a snack, yes. Long, long time. Long time… since we, Hokardij, have been fed. Trapped… together… your heart… warm? What does warm… taste like, we wonder…”

A snack. Oh, no. Steve’s been reduced to being a snack, and he has to put up with the fact that he’s going to be eaten in what  _ has  _ to be hell- one hell of a dream. He wants to scream so badly, especially now that the mass is literally crawling its way over to him. It’s coming closer, six feet away, five, four, three, two, one, one inch-

White light pierces through the veil, making Steve’s eyes water. He slams them shut, and he vaguely hears someone yelling about how snacking ruins the natural order, you idiot, what the hell are you thinking, they’re not due for another seventy years- there’s a horrible sound, not unlike one of nails on a chalkboard, the sound of metal bending and morphing, and then he’s back in his own body, at home.

* * *

Steve has trouble breathing as he comes back to his own trembling body, teeth chattering with the adrenaline. Has his house always been so hot? There’s sweat dripping off of his face and he grimaces, swiping away at the droplets quickly. He’s contemplating turning up the AC when he realizes that it’s not his house that’s the problem- it’s his body. That dream- however odd and otherworldly- is affecting him. 

He remembers how cold it was there, almost sub-zero. He can feel the remnants of the frost under his fingertips, on his toes. He whips off the blanket to stare at his feet: perfectly fine. His human eyes miss the way a black wisp disintegrates in the appearance of new light washing over his body.

He looks around at his room, taking in all the solidness of everything around him. He’s home. He’s always  _ been  _ home. He’s not in… whatever that place was. He’s safe. He checks the stereo on his bedside table. It says, “June 17, 6:01 a.m.” His alarm was set for almost half an hour later, but he sighs.

Steve pulls himself out of bed, going straight to the shower. It’s almost time for work. 

* * *

When he gets to the staff change room, he sees Bucky getting ready for the shift they share together. Another perk of being the owner of the place you work at: you get to arrange your shifts to be with people you actually like.

Bucky’s a close friend, having grown up with Steve on the streets of Brooklyn. They went to school together, went to college together, ran the store together- there hasn’t been a big moment in his life that Bucky wasn’t a part of.

“Hey Steve,” greets Bucky. He gives Steve a warm smile before turning back to the wall to change into his uniform. “You’re not looking that happy to be here.”

Steve snorted. “Yeah, well, I’m just glad I’m out and about.”

“Why’s that?”

“I had a weird dream last night. It wasn’t that great at putting me into a good mood for the day.”

“Ah. Who else is with us today?”

“I think… Sam and Thor.”

They change together while chitchatting (Bucky finishes changing first, and he waits for Steve by the door) and get ready for the onslaught of morning people that live off of coffee. Steve has a feeling that the day is going to be a long one.

He goes through the motions, taking orders and working the register while Bucky makes the orders with the other two. 

Sam is a friend that Steve’s known from his college days, an ever-steady force of procrastination, and has been there for a multiple of Steve’s mental breakdowns. Thor… is like a stray cat. One day, he walked into the store, absolutely confused about where on Earth he was and who he was. Steve helped him out, got Bruce (another college friend but much  _ much _ smarter than both Sam, Steve, and Bucky combined) to give him a roof over his head, and now they’re living together. 

Thor still doesn’t know who he is exactly, but he says (and reminds Steve every so often) that he likes the way his life is. If anything, Steve’s pretty sure that he’s scared of who he was- but that’s something to discuss later.

He swaps with Bucky after a couple of hours, almost getting scalding hot espresso sprayed on him twice when he gets flashes of fear from his dream that make him jump. He doesn’t miss the concerned glances his way from his co-worker when Bucky asks to switch back. Steve doesn’t say no. 

“Are you okay, Steve?” Thor asks. That’s when Steve knows that something’s wrong: Thor’s as observant as a brick wall. No offense. 

“Yeah, I’m completely fine,” Steve lies, setting his jaw. 

“Oh! That is very good, Steve. My apologies.” Thor smiles radiantly. 

Sam looks at Thor in disbelief, shakes his head, and moves on with the next order. “You look like you haven’t slept in a while.”

“I slept last night. There was just… a bad dream.”

“Want something to knock you out tonight?”

“No thanks,” says Steve with a grateful smile. “I’ll just watch some documentaries before bed or something.”

“If you say so.”

Thor and Sam are bickering about their favourite male lead in Gilmore Girls when the woman in white walks in. She wears business casual wear with a white trenchcoat, a white dress shirt, white suit pants, and a white derby hat- one of the types that you see in cartoons, with flowers on top. She practically glows in the sunlight that bounces off of her through the shop’s windows.

Bucky greets her, taking her order- he pushes Steve to make her order. As always, it’s a regular, black coffee- a contrast from her clothing choices. Her long, flaming red hair barely moves as she walks (almost sashays) over to the counter where customers pick up their order. She’s impervious to the near gaping customers, to the abrupt silence that dropped the moment she walked in, to the wary sounds of plates and cutlery that pick up slightly after the customers recollect themselves after witnessing the near model-like entry of the woman in white. 

“Coffee, black,” Steve says to the quieter store. The woman in white smiles at him, pearly whites gleaming. 

“Thank you,” she says, angelically. She pauses before leaving, a tilt in her smile that seems out of place. She deviates from her normal routine of just walking out by adding, “Get some rest.”

Just like that, she’s out of the store. 

Get some rest? Did Steve look that tired? He rubs a hand down his face wearily, deciding that he would sleep early that night. He closes his eyes while leaning against the counter behind him for a second. The moment he shuts his eyes, he feels invisible hands clutch at him, his clothes, his face-

“Steve.”

He startles, eyes snapping open. “Yeah, yeah, sorry. What?”

Bucky’s staring at him, unimpressed.

“We’ll talk about your sleeping habits later. Check this out.” Bucky waves a small slip of paper that has digits written elegantly on them with a striking blue ink. “She left you her number.”

“Who?” asks Steve, dumbly. 

Bucky’s face turns impatient. “The woman in white. Look here.” He points under the numbers at two words that Steve had missed in his dumbfoundedness. “Natasha Romanoff. You slick bastard, you charmed her!”

“What? I don’t even talk to her when I’m not giving her her order!”

“Exactly! She likes men who can keep their mouths shut! Look at you, standing there, pretty!”

Steve’s at a loss for words. Bucky shoves the paper into his apron’s pocket, hustling back to the register now that Steve’s just standing in front of the fridge. He pulls the paper back out, reading the numbers over in his head. Out of habit, he flips it to look at the other side. 

It says, “To the blue-eyed man with the blond hair. If you want someone to talk to, I’ll be here.”

* * *

Steve stays through all the shifts that day, seeing M.J., Wanda, Carol, and Scott come in for the second and last shift. He waves goodbye to Carol, who leaves with Scott, who’s talking about his daughter while practically gushing with love for her. Scott gives him an enthusiastic “Bye Steve!”, a momentary pause in his praise. 

He looks around the store, now silent after everyone’s gone. The windows show the dark but warm night, and he resists the urge to just stare at the street where cars drive by occasionally. It isn’t a very busy street, save for when it’s July 4th, and people want to catch the large, cheesy parade float that passes by. He’s not complaining though, as it helps business out. He gets M.J. to come in early and he helps her make American related pastries, all given with a ten percent discount on their whole order. 

The counters are clean, the floors are clean, everything’s spotless. He smiles to himself. His employees are good at what they do, and so is he. 

He turns around to go into the kitchen when he suddenly hears a high-pitched ringing that stabs into his right ear. He winces, clapping a hand to the side of his head in a feeble attempt to make it stop. What the hell? God, today just was not his day. He stands there, one hand on the right side of his face, just waiting for the pain to subside. Slowly, the ringing goes away. That’s when he gets a feeling of doom and despair that trickles down his spine. 

He turns around and sees that the store’s chairs and tables have all been pushed to the walls in disarray, like a bulldozer ran through the store. In the middle of the store, a man. Not only a man, but the most beautiful man Steve’s ever seen. He feels his breath catch in his throat, feels his pulse quickening. Holy shit.

He has a jawline that could cut marble, piercing eyes- they stay trained on Steve’s face, never flickering away. He wears a clean-cut all-black suit, perfectly tailored to his body, and a smile that doesn’t waver. He makes Steve feel self-conscious, standing there with his plain gray tee and blue jeans and flimsy apron. 

When he feels his brain function normally again, it takes all that he has to stammer out, “C-can I help you?”

The man speaks in an unfamiliar tongue, with harsh syllables and clipped consonants. 

“I- what?”

The man narrows his eyes for a second before understanding is shown on his face. He clears his throat, swallowing loudly. “Are you Steven Grant Rogers?”

“Uh,” he says dumbly. “Yes.”

“Oh! Good.” The man walks through the door behind the counter, standing in front of him. Steve can smell him- as creepy as that sounds. It smells like cedar, like a rich person’s cologne but darker. He holds his hand out to shake Steve’s. “I’m Anthony. I don’t know if you remember me. I hope you don’t mind all of… this.” He gestures vaguely at the mess of furniture behind him. “Mortal objects don’t really like it when demonic entities come up here, huh?” He smiles like he’s made a really funny joke, and expects Steve to laugh. Steve’s too busy processing that this guy can move stuff with his mind to even blink.

Anthony sighs, dropping his arm, and this sends another gust of cologne towards Steve’s face that makes his heart skip a beat. “Humans. I just don’t get them.”

Steve just registers the question that Anthony had asked. “Uh, I don’t remember you. I think I would’ve remembered you if I ever saw you before.” The last few words come out of his mouth without his permission. 

Anthony barks a laugh. 

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Steve starts slowly, “what are you?”

Anthony’s permanent smile turns sharp. “A demon. One from down, down low. Welcome to the big leagues, kid.”

“Oh.” Steve knows he should react some other way, like scream in fear or try to run away, but he feels… safe. “Why are you here?”

“About that,” Anthony says. He opens one side of his suit jacket to reach into a pocket. Steve sees the whirring of gears and metal woven into the material, but he chalks it up to magic, because what else? “Here.” He hands Steve an envelope with his name at the front and a fancy-looking seal at the back. 

“What is it?”

“Humans, so many questions! Read it.”

Steve opens it gingerly, remembering what his mother had once said about taking things from strangers: they’re always more trouble than it’s worth. Sorry, Mom. He pulls out the black paper that’s written on with white ink. 

“Steven Grant Rogers,” it says. “Please accept this formal apology from Highest Archduke of the 9th Circle, Heir to Satan, may he forever be treacherous, Heir to the 4th Quadrant of the 9th, His Highness Anthony. An event has occurred in which the recipient of this letter has been severely wronged, treated unjustly, and/or must deliver penance to the wrongdoer (being dragged to Hell in the Hall of Empty mistakenly by Hokardij, Sentinel of the Hall of Empty under supervision of His Highness Anthony); His Highness Anthony has sentenced himself to an undetermined amount of time in the Mortal Realm, as to be a source of strength and honesty to the recipient of this letter, Steven Grant Rogers. Please sign below to accept this apology.”

And then there’s a line for him to sign on. When he looks up from the letter, Anthony almost looks sheepish, despite that wolfish grin of his. 

“Sounds good, wonderboy?”


End file.
